The no Titled Ulysses

Addiction

I'm addicted to your lips, jaws, chin, teeth , and all those intricate , harmonious physical perfections of yours. But most importantly, I'm hooked on your tongue. That little but strongest piece of muscles in our body, well science says so and to some extent it's true . Your tongue lifts my lips and sways them so damn perfectly in a proof of it's scientific strength and the meticulous accuracy of those graphs.And when the weather is hot, intense , dry you gently and delicately scroll it over my cracked lips to moisten them. And my lips are healed . I wonder why won't they ! For all that masculinity could let the grass grow in a barren African land. When I discern at your lips from a minute distance, though minute it is ; I can't stand past a powerful gush of adrenaline , you foster my taste buds. My lips taste like the last mint confection you had and my breath is so fresh with the fragrance of yours . When you bent your neck to reach for my dejected lips, just reach ! And when you approach to fracture that minute distance separating our lips from eternal contact, I pray to get blind and to lose possession of my earthly senses and only engage with you with my ethereal existence. Purge our sins my sexy babe with much lingering . Your lips are my own version of the Bible and kissing me is the very sacrificial act of crucifixion. I still know not much about your supernatural prowess which precisely bestows lavishly upon me with a genuine ,light brush of those cherry -like lips . I'm over charged by your saliva, you are my lip-salve and conditioner of all the sorrows burdening me. When I'm engulfed with your lips, entirely overwhelmed by an angelic power, I can affirm that heaven is few miles away , above my head and that hell has no sort of a slight existence . When you love me to such an extent , I feel shameful because I am helpless and such unconditional warmth and affection annihilate and diminish my presence into a negligible atomic mass of an anonymous chemical element ,an element I like to call Love. It's of an eerie nature, this concept which constitutes my ultimate satisfaction with you. And when the weather is cold, freezing , below zero and we are marching down some merry isles on Christmas Eve and I monitor the roads with awe and touch the flakes with my almost blue-like fingers you take off your coat and spread it over my shoulders and in my name press an innocent kiss to my palm to defrost it so that it retains its colour .Babe, I realised that you caught cold and that the top of your nose is so red from blowing , but you said my love to you is your fortress against flue and our company on such a religious night is chicken soup. I feel flattered even by slight reminiscences . I'm still able to recollect the flavour of our kiss at the end of Victoria, Greater London: 85,337,996 station. The only whole and primary bottle of luxurious , tonic champaign I drunk was your liqueur lips and saliva. Nothing is as tasteful as rewarding your lips for all the pleasures they ignited in my taste buds and every single neurotransmitter that moaned and groaned when our lips contacted.
Our kissings are as a spark of a train wheels in the Victorian era where friction goes nerve tensing but with so much ease and no frustration . You didn't want me to depart , you clutched to me and wouldn't let go , as if tomorrow is Doom's day and you want to have enough of me before the world collapses.I looked back at you and you involuntarily gulped my lips into your mouth for ten complete minutes and you gave me your extra hot tea cup to warm me till I reach my home. It was torturing to see you in that miserable condition unable to stop pondering in every second we spent and it was such an honour for my lips to stand a chance with yours. I admit , the infatuation was great and your gentleness was such a breath-taking experience like Pride and Prejudice . When I was finally at home and you texted for assurance of my arrival, our conversation went like Hazel Grace Lancaster and Augustus Waters of the Fault in our Stars . It was Okay till the end.

John Green: The Fault in our Stars

Jane Austen: Pride and Prejudice